


Night Ghosts

by legoline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ridden with grief, Sam is slowly falling apart when Bobby finds a way to bring Dean back.  Set after 3x16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Slowly transferring my fic to my AO3 account. 
> 
> Much love to Pix for the beta.

He can never sleep after that night. He can’t, and really, he simply won’t. Every time he closes his eyes and gives into his exhaustion his mind is tortured with the flaming images of his brother being slashed by hellhounds, and the echoes of Dean’s agonised throes vibrate behind his eyes. He sees the blood drowning Dean, watches Dean crawl over the floor in a desperate attempt to get the hounds off his body, and Sam hears himself scream over and over again. Lilith’s laughter rises above it all. 

He wakes and his body is aching and his face clammy, and cold pierces through every fibre of his body; the sheets are soaked in sweat. He wakes up hoarse, his voice gone from the screaming and whispered pleas. He never cries, though.

He can mostly push it aside during the day; he can pretend that Dean’s just out to get a coffee or a burger or refilling the car, except for when Sam looks outside the Impala’s black and polished metal greets him with a hint of wistfulness. He can act like Dean will be back by nightfall and that none of this ever happened for as long as the sun’s still up in the sky and the people passing by his window distract him. At night, it’s just him and only him, and the glass house he’s built up so carefully all day comes crashing down on him. 

Dean’s in Hell. Not just dead—Hell. Down where souls are turned into demons.

He sits by the table and his eyes fall shut, like lead, overcome by his own fatigue. The moment darkness embraces him a scream shatters his mind. Dean’s scream as the hellhounds tear him apart, and Sam jerks up, rubbing his eyes. 

His muscles hurt, his body is sore. His head is buzzing and aching from the lack of sleep. He hasn’t glanced in the mirror in two weeks. Cannot look himself in the eye.

He booked himself into a cheap apartment four or five weeks back. Dean said he should keep fighting, but it’s so damn hard when he's too tired of all of this. 

***

Bobby remembers the sight with a clarity that terrifies him, like it was burnt into his mind and left an imprint he can’t erase. He’d known what he would find but still, seeing that Winchester kid slashed open and bloody on the floor in his brother’s arms hit him with a force beyond good and evil. 

He remembers staring at Dean’s body and thinking of that nine-year old who used to run around in his house, laughing and chasing Sammy, whose eyes lit up every time Bobby gave him an acknowledging pat on the shoulder. The kid John Winchester raised to be a soldier and to look after Sammy—a job that Dean had carried out until his very last breath, so completely that at the moment that Bobby looked at Dean’s body, all that he wanted to do was smash John Winchester’s head into the next brick wall.

John Winchester had taught Dean to give himself up for Sam—and Dean had followed the order. Literally.

They took Dean’s body home, placed it on an old folding bed and spread a blanket over Dean’s legs and torso. They cleaned up his face a little and closed his eyes until he looked peacefully asleep. 

Sam sat with him for a long time, face stony and numb. When he mentioned the idea of bargaining for Dean’s soul or challenging Lilith to bring Dean back, as Bobby had expected Sam would, Bobby told him that Dean wouldn’t have wanted that. That he didn’t go to Hell for that. Sam never brought up the subject again.

Instead he just sat with Dean like an ancient statue, unmoving and empty, and Bobby never once saw him cry. Not after they brought Dean home anyway. Sam’s eyes were distant for most of the part, fixed on a spot on the wall far, far away, and once or twice Sam’s lower lip trembled. His hands were curled to fists most of the time, but Sam never cried. 

It felt as if that face of stone was the only thing that kept Sam together.

They burned Dean’s body a couple of days later. Dean would have wanted it, Sam said with a voice deprived of all emotion. Bobby wanted him to stay, but Sam left the day after that, saying he had things to do. Wars to fight.

Bobby didn’t like to see him go, came fucking close to just grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking some sense into him. It wouldn’t have done any good. Letting Sam go now, Bobby had realised, was the only way of keeping in touch with him.

Bobby remembers all this as he stares in his drink, old whiskey he meant to give Dean for his next birthday. Maybe he’d been overly optimistic there but somehow he just hadn’t imagined the kid really dying. 

He hasn’t talked to Sam in a while, but he knows Sam has exchanged motel rooms for a cheap one-room apartment, and that he’s not been hunting like he meant to. Bobby would offer to talk, but this is too personal, too painful for Sam to even consider talking about. 

Bobby runs a hand over his face and sighs, letting his gaze drift across his books. Tons of useless information. None of this could save Dean. Where was his cleverness, his knowledge when the boys had really needed it? 

He should have known it was Lilith holding the contract. He should have known all along.

***

He begins swallowing sleeping pills; they knock him out good and leave him in a dreamless state of ignorant bliss, bury him underneath a heavy black cloak. He wakes up still tired, too weary to get up. Some days, he doesn’t even make it out of bed. 

Dean’s words keep coming back to him. He should keep fighting but he just can’t. Getting by is hard enough as it is right now when all he has to focus on is to breathe and not think about Dean being torn apart alive. Dean’s soul being in Hell for his sake.

He remembers when Dean came to Stanford, asked him for help to find Dad. He remembers all the comments he threw at Dean, all the eye-rolling and condescending remarks, remembers how he mistook Dean’s love and dedication for lack of respect. Remembers how Dean always accepted that in silence, was content enough to have his family around no matter what they thought of him. It strikes Sam that he’ll never be able to make up for that now that Dean’s dead—gone forever with his soul being tortured during every moment that Sam’s alive and breathing and long after that. 

Maybe it would be easier if Dean had just died. If Sam knew that Dean had moved on to whatever comes after death. 

Not this. 

He should have tried harder to break Dean’s deal. He should have agreed to Ruby’s plan. He could have saved Dean.

He fills a glass with water and takes four sleeping pills, twice the recommended dosage on the bottle. It’s all that keeps him going by now. 

***

He summons Lilith in an old abandoned house. He makes sure he’s protected with all that can protect him. Two rings of salt around him, holy water everywhere, amulets and a rosary in his hand. Notices how his voice shakes as he summons her, and yet there is no way around this. 

Dangerous, maybe impossible, stupid no doubt but—if he can do this, if this works—it’ll all have been worth it, even if he dies. 

She comes as a little red-headed girl with freckles all over her face, and she grins at him with two missing front teeth. 

“Bobby Singer,” she pipes. “I don’t know whether you’re really dumb or really brave.”

“Lilith,” he says slowly, watching each movement of her hands and feet anxiously. “We have to talk.”

“Please say it’s about Dean,” she sneers. “I’m so disappointed Sam hasn’t shown up to bargain for his soul yet.”

“He won’t. Trust me. He won’t.”

“Shame, really,” she says with a sigh. “That would have been fun.”

“Thing is,” Bobby replies thoughtfully, “I don’t think he _has_ to bargain for it.”

The smile vanishes from her face. “Don’t be absurd.”

Bobby shakes his head. “See, your saleswoman at the crossroads—the deals that she makes—they only count for humans. Right? And Dean, he made the deal for Sam the human, unaware that Sam has demon blood inside. But your saleswoman—I bet she must have known. She knew that Sam wasn’t entirely human, and no matter how tiny that percentage of demonic heritage is in Sam, she shouldn’t have been supposed to help him. She would have been obliged to turn the deal down. But she didn’t. She broke the rules.” 

As he speaks, his voice wins confidence. He sees confusion and irritation flare up in Lilith’s eyes, but she listens and so Bobby continues. 

“That means, the deal isn’t legit. And Dean’s soul doesn’t belong to you.”

She glances at him with one eyebrow raised, stares at him for a good long minute that makes the blood rushing through Bobby’s ears sound exceptionally loud. Then she gives a short hysteric laughter, “What nonsense.”

“No nonsense,” Bobby says. “I know I can demand you bring Dean back and I do.”

“I don’t think I will. I don’t take orders from a human.”

Bobby narrows his eyes. “I know that in this case, you have no other choice. Bring Dean back.”

“Suppose I did that, made the deal undone...” she says sweetly, “...that would kill dear Sammy.”

Bobby’s expected that answer, and he is prepared. He’s done his homework.

“It wouldn’t. You can’t reverse that because it was your side that screwed up, not ours. Your demon broke the rules, hence your side must be the one living with the consequences. Sam stays alive, and you bring Dean back. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I know what I’m talking about. There is no way for you out of this. When it comes to deals, you demons are just as bound to red tape as we humans are. I spent weeks verifying this information.”

Suddenly, her face goes blank and her eyes turn white. 

“Fine,” she spits, before she vanishes into thin air. “But one day, I’m going to kill you for this, Singer.”

***

Sam sleeps for three hours before the effect of the pills fade out on him and the nightmares become too strong to battle against. He opens his eyes a crack and rolls over on his back. His heart is pounding as if he’s been running a marathon and Dean’s screams still faintly echo in the distance. If only he could have been faster. If only they’d realised sooner...

He shuts his eyes tightly again and bites his lip until he tastes copper. 

_Remember what Dad taught you. Remember what I taught you._

Sam’s fairly certain that Dean meant how to hunt, how to cover his tracks, every of those little Marine tricks they drilled into his body until they became his flesh and soul. But all that Sam remembers is family. To take care of each other, that they were all the other had. Remembers how much he’d missed Dean at first when he went to Stanford, how that sensation never really subsided even though Sam covered it in anger and disgust for everything Dean represented. 

He recalls Dean teaching him how to fix the Impala, the pile of steel and wires Sam can barely look at these days, teaching that you couldn’t always pick your family. Teaching him that even though their family was pretty screwed up, they still had it better than other families living behind white picket fences and rose bushes. 

And they all died for him, every single member of his family.

He knows he should be crying, but he can’t even though the tears choke him, demanding to be let out. He just can’t. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does, whether he will ever be able to stop crying once he allows himself to. Can’t risk it. He promised to keep fighting and right at this moment, fighting those damn tears and the urge to let himself be completely swallowed by grief is all that Sam can offer.

He tries to go back to sleep, listens to the occasional car drive by outside, but every time fatigue is about to ease him into the realm of recovering sleep all that Sam sees is blood and Dean on the floor, and all that he hears are the hellhounds barking, the sound of flesh being ripped open. Sam opens his eyes again, and he stares at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

***

A quiet whimper fills the room, and Bobby whips around, heart thumping against his chest. 

A figure is crouching on the ground in the half-shadows on all fours, tiny and broken, breath hitching in the stillness. Even in the dark, Bobby can see that the shirt is bloody and torn, jeans ripped open in places. Bruises and scars mottle the forearms.

“Dean?” Bobby says, asks with caution. The hair on his neck is standing up, skin prickling.

Upon hearing the name, the person slowly lifts his head to look at Bobby, and Bobby gasps, bringing a hand to his mouth. 

Dean’s left eye is unmoving and gone light green, and Bobby just knows that Dean can’t use it anymore. Cuts and blood decorate his face, and there’s a frown on his face as he glances up at Bobby, still gasping for air, the rhythm of his erratic breath only disturbed by quiet whimpers. 

His form is shaking with cold or pain or fear, Bobby can’t say. 

But the sight feels like his heart is too big and too heavy for his chest. He takes a hesitant step forwards, towards Dean and then another. Dean’s frown increases, he looks like he’s not sure whether he’s hallucinating or whether this is real. He looks exactly like someone who wants to believe but has learned not to trust his own sensations anymore. 

He flinches back when Bobby drops to his knees and reaches out to him, but Bobby’s hand finds Dean’s shoulder eventually, and even though Dean tenses up he doesn’t withdraw from the touch. His good eye runs back and forth from Bobby to the surroundings and back to Bobby. Eventually, after a good long two minutes, he relaxes under Bobby’s hand, and Bobby scoots closer and pulls Dean into a careful hug. 

“Christ, Dean,” he says. 

Dean leans into him like dead weight, head resting against Bobby’s shoulder. 

“Sam? Where...?” he asks, voice hoarse and rough before it trails off, like it’s been used too often, worn out. Different from the voice Bobby remembers that used to be deep and warm.

Bobby places his hand on Dean’s back carefully and feels the spine through wet cloth under his palm. He didn’t know you could lose weight in Hell but then again...Dean’s real body is long gone, and maybe this here is what Dean looked like there. He doesn’t know. 

He just knows that he’s got the kid back, safe in his arms, and that he needs to bring Dean home and have him rest and cleaned up. Then, he knows, he needs to call Sam.

***

The telephone rings in the early hours of the morning, and Sam, too tired to ignore it, picks it up.

“Sam,” he hears Bobby’s familiar voice. 

“Bobby,” Sam replies. His own voice sounds distant and defeated.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” Sam sighs. Bobby probably knows that Sam hasn’t been sleeping again, but he’s considerate enough not to ask questions. Sam likes that about Bobby, he knows when to leave matters alone.

“Listen Sam, how fast can you be here?” 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “What? Why?”

“I need you to come here as soon as you can.” 

“Again, why?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone, Sam. Just—come here as soon as you can. Please, Sam. It’s really important. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam switches on the light on the nightstand, and a moment later it illuminates the room in a sickish yellow. “I’m on my way.”

Only after Bobby’s hung up Sam realises there was something weird about Bobby as he spoke—maybe Sam was too tired to notice at the time. He sounded tense, shook up. Sam’s stomach flips upside down as he thinks about it. Maybe Bobby’s found out where Lilith is hiding and wants him to finally stand up and fight her. Kill her. Make sure she can hold no more deals.

But Sam can barely keep on his feet as it is.

He’s almost forgotten how to pack a duffle bag, what needs to go inside and what doesn’t. How to fold his jeans neatly so they’ll take up less space and what needs to go in first. Funny how easily you forget. 

He stands in the parking lot for ten minutes, staring at the Impala before he can convince his trembling fingers to unlock the door and tell his body to climb behind the wheel. 

Being in the driver’s seat has never felt more wrong, and he sits up straight all the way to Bobby’s, even when his back starts to send painful pulses through his nervous system, fingers cramped around the wheel and his eyes on the road, not looking right or left. Most of all not right where the passenger seat is and the place where Sam belongs.

The radio keeps quiet.

***

He only realises Dean’s barefoot when Bobby tells him to sit down on the guest bed, and Dean lifts his feet obediently. Kid must have tripped on pointy rocks and shattered glass and whatnot, but he didn’t so much as flinch all the way from the house to Bobby’s car and then from the car to his house—he must have been freezing but Bobby hadn’t thought to bring a blanket. Dean hadn’t given any indication he was cold though, he’d kept staring out of the window with his eyes wide at the houses and trees and fields they were passing by. 

He has a brief look at Dean’s back and chest. The shirt reeks with dried blood, and Bobby wants to make sure there aren’t any injuries they’re missing. But all he finds are freshly healed wounds, oddly shaped, and Bobby doesn’t want to know how they ended up on Dean’s skin. They still seem to hurt and Dean only moves very slowly, but at least he isn’t bleeding and apart from his bad eye and the cuts on his arms and face, he seems to be physically okay.

Bobby brings in an old shirt and a pair of Dean’s sleeping pants that he forgot here after John’s death, and Bobby had been meaning to give it back ever since. Usually, when the boys came over there were more important things at hand like possessions or the Colt or a dawning apocalypse, so Bobby had forgotten to return it to Dean. 

Dean changes slowly while Bobby’s in the kitchen making the kid some instant soup, but he can hear Dean groan as he strips his bloodied shirt off and puts on the clean one. He sits on the bed with his legs pulled up and shoulders shaking when Bobby enters with a bowl of soup in his hands.

Dean eats slowly; the spoon in his hand trembles. Bobby watches in silence, and Dean doesn’t speak either. He hasn’t said a word ever since he asked about Sam, and that is like a fist squeezing Bobby’s heart because when has the kid ever kept still like this?

“Sam’s on his way,” Bobby says and Dean just stares at him disbelieving. He looks nervous. He still doesn’t fully trust this, and he has the air of an animal ready to leap over a wired fence at the first sign of danger. 

But he hears Bobby, listens to him, recognises him and remembers Sam, so he’s not completely out of it. At least that thought is relieving. 

Dean blinks and blinks again. He can barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion. 

When Dean is finished, Bobby tells him to lie down for a while, that he’s right in the next room should Dean need him. Dean nods and slides down until he’s all tucked in under the blanket. Anxious or not, he seems to be too tired to argue with Bobby. As his lids drop and his breath evens out, Bobby lets his fingers run through Dean’s hair briefly before he stands to leave the room.

Bobby leaves the door ajar and moves on into the kitchen, begins to clean up old plates and pots and pans, cups and mugs. He hasn’t done a proper washing-up like this in years, but he needs to keep his hands busy until Sam gets here, and diving back into old texts isn’t an option right now.

Every once in a while he checks on Dean, monitors Dean’s sleep for a few minutes before he returns to the kitchen. Dean’s breath is still too shallow and his shoulders are still shaking a bit, but at least he’s sleeping. He seems tiny in the guest bed, vulnerable. 

Bobby’s always looked after the boys, when they were younger and then after John died, but he’s never felt like he needs to protect Dean like this, let nobody come close and hurt him. So that he can heal properly and eventually, find his way back to himself.

The growling of a V8 engine pulls Bobby from his thoughts, and he hurries to the front door, where Sam’s just getting out of the Impala. Kid looks like he’s been awake for months with his eyes rimmed by dark circles and his face all white and gaunt. Looks twice his age, really, with that stubble framing his face and his shoulders slouched like that. He shuffles up the stairs and gives Bobby a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Hey Bobby,” he says, voice all flat and drained, and it downright breaks Bobby’s heart. He takes a deep breath. This isn’t going to be easy, and he has no idea how to break it to Sam that his brother’s back.

“Sam,” Bobby replies and gives Sam a pat on the shoulder that Sam either doesn’t notice or just ignores. “Come in.”

***

Bobby leads him into the living room, and the first thing Sam notices is the first-aid kit on the coffee table, still open with band-aids and disinfectants laying on the table top. 

“Are you hurt?” Sam asks, and when Bobby turns around and shoots him a confused glance Sam adds, “I mean, uhm, because of the first aid stuff on the table.”

Bobby shakes his head, nervousness flickers up in his eyes. “No, I’m not hurt.” 

Sam nods, shoves his hands into his pockets and waits. Bobby looks at him, not even bothering to hide how antsy he is now, and Sam stiffens instantly. He can’t help the frown that furrows his forehead. He tries to brace himself for whatever comes next, he’s got the feeling Bobby’s going to drop a bomb on him and that usually means bad news. 

Though, considering, Sam doesn’t think there are any news left bad enough bother him. Even the apocalypse probably wouldn’t bother him much. All that’s left is stuff, things that should mean something to him but then they never do.

“What is it?” he asks. 

“You better see for yourself.”

Bobby points to the small room next to the kitchen, and Sam shuffles over slowly. Bobby’s right behind him, and Sam doesn’t have to see him to know Bobby’s more edgy than a rabbit trying to get through a pack of wolves. A bunch of knots form in Sam’s stomach, and he takes a deep breath, before he pushes the door open.

***

Sam enters the room with two steps, stops, and then, after a moment, Bobby sees his back straighten, his shoulders shoot upwards and Sam’s hands curl to fists. Another moment later Sam storms out of the room, brushes by Bobby and reaches out to the couch for support. He stares at Bobby with his eyes wide open, gasping for air, red blotches in his face, and his eyes are shining a little. He looks at Bobby like a madman, and he keeps sucking in air as if he’s rapidly running out of oxygen.

His body’s shaking all over, and his teeth are so clenched his jaw line seems to be carved in stone. 

“What the—“ Sam breathes, but then his voice breaks and the sound is angry and bitter. Maybe he thinks Bobby’s playing a joke on him, and for a moment Bobby feels hurt that Sam would think that. But then he remembers how long it took until Sam had accepted Dean’s death, at least enough to realise he wasn’t coming back, and now it must be hard to even consider that Dean might be alive. 

“Sam,” Bobby says calmly. “It’s true.”

Sam stares at him, face blank, like Bobby’s speaking in a language Sam doesn’t understand.

“No,” he says flatly. He shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. His fingers curl until they look like paws, clinging to the back of the couch. He shakes his head again and whispers, “No.”

“Sam,” Bobby says and takes a step toward Sam. Sam flinches, jerks his head up instantly and he backs off a little, enough to keep his distance. The expression in his eyes is wild as he stares at Bobby, bordering on the ends of insanity. The kid needs an explanation soon, Bobby realises, or Sam’s going to snap right here and now. 

Bobby knows that Sam hasn’t fared as well as he pretends sometimes, but seeing him like this—shaking, somewhere between madness and the last remains of reason, ready to break—Bobby gets an idea just how tough it’s really been for Sam. Too tough, perhaps. 

For the first time Bobby thinks that bringing Dean back might have been the only thing to save Sam from a long and lethal fall.

“Sam, I made the deal undone.” He tries to keep his voice steady. Something firm that stands between him and Sam. Something for Sam to hold onto.

Sam glances up, still shaking his head. “That’s impossible.”

“I found a loophole. In a place where I hadn’t looked before. It took weeks to make sure it would work, and in the end I still wasn’t sure but I summoned Lilith and bluffed. And she....”

His throat closes up as he sees the hope flicker in Sam’s eyes. He hangs onto every word Bobby says, against better judgement perhaps, but his heart is desperate to believe Dean’s really back. Sam bites his lower lip when it begins to tremble.

“She released him from Hell,” Bobby finishes.

Sam makes a sound somewhere between a sharp sigh and a sob, and he turns his head so Bobby can’t see his face. Bobby doesn’t have to. Sam’s shaking shoulders, now slumped, and the way Sam leans on his arms for support tells him everything he needs to know. 

“That’s your brother in the guest room,” Bobby adds quietly. 

Sam’s breath becomes loud hitches. His arms slowly give in like they’re lacking strength, until he leans on his elbows, half bent over the couch. He cups his hands around his face and shakes his head once more.

“He needs you,” Bobby says. He steps closer, and this time, Sam doesn’t flinch or jerk. Maybe he doesn’t notice Bobby coming nearer. He tenses up briefly when Bobby, after a moment of consideration, puts his hand on Sam’s back. But he stays where he is, face hid behind bangs of hair so no one can see him fighting back tears. Bobby rubs a small circle between Sam’s shoulder blades and that seems to help because Sam’s breath evens out a little. _Fuck_ , Bobby thinks. He really doesn’t know which of them Winchesters needs fixin’ more. 

The one that went to Hell or the one that put himself through Hell.

He slides his hand over Sam’s shoulder until it curls over it, and he pulls Sam over slightly, enough so that Sam straightens and turns. He glances at Bobby, and his eyes are shining before he quickly runs his arm over his face. That moment, Sam doesn’t look older than four years, and Bobby’s tempted to address the kid with his nickname that only Dean’s allowed to use. 

Bobby pushes Sam forward with gentle force, and Sam stumbles, wavering on his feet, towards the door to the guestroom. 

***

Somewhere on the way, Bobby’s hands withdraw from his back and the pushing ebbs away until Sam staggers forward on his own, chills running down his spine in waves. He’s not quite sure when it happens, but when he reaches the end of the bed he turns around and sees Bobby standing by the doorframe. 

Sam swallows down a lump in his throat, and his fingers search for the bed frame. Bobby gives him an encouraging nod, barely visible in the dark blue shades that colour the room. The blinds are down, and only a little light seeps in from the hallway. Sam glances at Bobby helplessly, but Bobby’s lips twitch to what could be a smile, before he backs off and retreats to someplace else in his house. His footsteps on the wooden floor fade away, and then it’s only Sam and the person in the bed left in the room.

Taking a deep breath, Sam moves slowly, his eyes tracing the figure hidden underneath the covers. He sees the shapes of two legs, a too thin torso, bruised arms with barely a muscle left and fists clenched in sleep. The mattress sags when Sam eases down onto it, and only as he sits Sam brings his eyes up to meet the person’s face.

Gaunt features, pale skin. Cuts along the too refined jaw line, eyes sunken. Cheekbones too sharp, chin too pointy. Hair too long. And still...and still...

_Dean._

Sam freezes at the thought, and he sucks in breath sharply. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. The word. That one word. 

He forces himself to look up again. He doesn’t realise he’s started chewing his nails, and he blinks as his gaze slides up—neck, chin, cheeks, nose...eyes. _Dean._

At least this time, he doesn’t avert his eyes instantly. He orders himself to look, just like he’s given himself orders ever since his brother died, _Go to sleep, Sam. Eat something, Sam. Brush your teeth, Sam. Don’t go and kill yourself, Sam._

_Look at him, Sam._

He looks, and his heart stops for two seconds. His breath gets caught in his throat, and he blinks hastily because his eyes start burning and his vision begins to blur. He stares at the person and takes in everything, every freckle and every red cut on the pasty skin. The way the lips are slightly parted in sleep to breathe, the way the hair falls on his forehead. The black shadows rimming the eyes and the too angular shape of the face. 

Different from what he remembers, more like a stranger. But underneath that, _Dean._

As the thought invades his mind for the second time, the walls finally come down. Tears well up and even though Sam tries to choke them down, there’s nothing he can do. They fill up his eyes and run down his cheeks before he can even think, and when his body begins to shake he surrenders and gives in, and he cries. 

He bends over until his forehead rests on his arms crossed over his knees, and he breaks into helpless sobs. 

Everything comes back to him. 

The hellhounds tearing Dean apart and that moment when Dean’s eyes became a dull stare, the moment his heart stopped beating. Lilith and her laughter and the thought crossing Sam’s mind, _Please let her kill me_. Then—Dean in his arms, blood splattered over his face and eyes unmoving and the realisation that his brother was really gone. 

The days after that Sam barely remembers because the pain had been so vast and numbing. Crawling through the dark knowing that nothing would be the same ever again, knowing that everyone he’d loved had died because of him. Going through the weeks on autopilot, not caring, not living. Floating in loneliness that swallowed up everything else. Dean’s absence that went with every hour, minute, second of the day.

He remembers days when he just wanted all of this to end. Remembers yelling that he couldn’t bear it anymore, until Dean’s words—telling him to not give up and keep fighting—came back to him, and guilt crushed him because he’d failed Dean so badly, because he couldn’t even do that.

He cries and feels like his body only consists of tears. He weeps and knows that Bobby probably hears him, but he can’t stop his body from shaking, and he can’t choke all the tears that threaten to drown him. 

***

He should flinch when something suddenly brushes against his thigh, the reflex should be there and working. But that moment Sam’s the least of a hunter he’s ever been, and he just turns his head with a frown.

It’s Dean. 

The back of Dean’s right hand is brushing against the fabric of Sam’s denim jeans, jerks back and forth as if Dean isn’t used to moving his arm anymore. It’s awkward and clumsy, with no force behind it.

Sam swallows and glances at Dean from sore eyes. 

Dean’s looking back at him, one eye unmoving—he’s come back blind on that one, Sam doesn’t even have to ask. A gentle smile curves Dean’s lips. 

“I’m dreaming, right?” Dean asks. His voice is edgy and rough, like he’s been screaming for too long and his vocal chords are gone.

Sam wipes a tear from his cheek and shakes his head. “No.”

“You always say that,” Dean replies, the smile not leaving his face. Sam’s stomach flips upside down, and he runs another hand over his eyes. His fingers are still trembling. Dean’s smile fades suddenly. “Don’t cry, Sammy.” 

A sound that could be a huff or a short laugh escapes Sam’s mouth, and his gaze shoots up to the ceiling. He bites his lower lip, bites back more tears and tries to tell himself that it’s all over, the nightmare, and that he’s got Dean back. But it’s hard to believe, more so when he’s spent the last few months trying to get it in his head that Dean was dead.

When he looks backd at Dean the tears have stopped flowing though his eyes are still shining, still wet, but it seems to satisfy Dean who smiles again, almost looks proud. Proud of Sam. Sam chokes down more tears.

“I’m dreaming after all, ain’t I?” Dean asks quietly. “They say you’re dead. They’ve shown it to me.”

Dean’s words are deafening, drowning all the words that Sam still harbours inside out. He sounds so tiny, so defeated. So completely without hope. It doesn’t even seem to bother him he can only see with one eye. Most of all, he still thinks he’s in Hell. If he could, then Sam would kill each and every demon that did this to Dean. Who knows how they made Dean believe, who knows how they tortured that lie into Dean’s head. Sam isn’t sure he wants to know.

“They lied,” Sam brings himself to answer, even though his throat is as dry as the Sahara Desert. “I’m not dead. Bobby got you out. They can’t harm you anymore.”

Dean considers the answer for a moment, his focus flickers from Sam to the opposite wall and back to Sam, before it finally settles on Sam again. 

“So...” he begins, timid, licking his lips. “You’ll be here next time that I wake up?”

Sam nods and blinks away more suspicious tears. Dean doesn’t want him to cry. “I promise. I’ll be here. You’ll see, you’re not dreaming.”

His hand fumbles for Dean’s wrist and closes round it. Sam squeezes lightly, his lips twitch to a smile. Dean’s skin feels rough, rough and dry. 

Dean frowns, averts his eyes and looks back at Sam, the frown deepening. Confusion is lining his face, his features growing a little harder as the wheels in his mind begin to work. Then, his eyes widen when he seems to allow himself to weigh the possibility that this could be true. That maybe Sam will really still be there when he wakes up next time.

“Sammy,” he croaks breathlessly. Agitation shapes his voice now.

“Go back to sleep, Dean,” Sam says, lowering his voice to a reassuring tone. It has the desired effect, because Dean calms down to the sound of Sam’s words. “I promise I’ll be here. Get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

Dean nods slowly, almost obediently, and his lids sink. As his breath evens out Sam pulls a chair close, never letting go of Dean’s arm, and eases into it. He bends forward, using his left forearm as a pillow-substitute, and with the fingers of his right hand still curled around Dean’s wrist, he closes his eyes. 

Sleep comes easy to him that night, and for the first time in a long while, Sam welcomes it as a friend.


End file.
